


A More Perfect Union

by PunkHazard



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6388009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarrlok haggles like an old pro, round-faced innocence masking a shrewd understanding of value. Noatak never did get the hang of it; he's not one for compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He's forgotten how to be warm. The thought would have sent Noatak reeling, years ago, but whatever new sense of loss he feels at this revelation is far overshadowed by the already-present urge to keep running. It takes every ounce of control for him to stay in the Earth Kingdom, give Tarrlok time to rest and breathe away from their father's influence. Tarrlok wants stability, comfort, his loved ones with him. He's eleven and denies wanting hugs and smiles and games, which is fine because all Noatak can do is make sure he's safe and fed.

Noatak wants...

Noatak takes a part-time at the local bath house, cleaning basins every night and refilling them in the morning for enough yuan to buy new clothes, ones that aren't made of double-layers of leather and fur. He holds out for nearly three weeks-- long enough for Tarrlok to acclimate himself to the balmy northern Earth Kingdom spring, long enough for him to sleep easy and buy snacks from the corner store without glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

Not long enough to miss the place when they leave on a small cargo freighter bound for Republic City.

The ride is bumpy and claustrophobic, earthbenders badly suited to building sea vessels as they are. They pull water from the ocean every afternoon to supplement their travel expenses-- Tarrlok sloshes it across deck to clean off dirt and debris, Noatak purifies it and bends fresh water into barrels. They spend more time on deck than below, armpits hooked over the railing, feet braced against lower struts. Tarrlok watches the waves; Noatak keeps his eyes on the horizon.

(Tarrlok confides in him some three days before they land that he's absolutely delighted to use waterbending to help, thrilled that his skills can be applied to something other than torturing helpless animals. Noatak can't bring himself to say that he personally can't associate waterbending with anything but frightened wildlife and crying little brothers anymore, that every time he bends he wants to heave, so he says nothing.)

Noatak wants...

Arriving in Republic City, Noatak tells himself not to look too much like an outsider; that the place is full of people from all different nations, living in harmony as they should, and blending in should be simple. So simple that even someone who knew exactly what to look for could never find them. Still, Noatak can't shake the feeling that everyone can see them for what they are: two backcountry Water Tribe rubes, sons of Republic City's most notorious mob boss, vulnerable and new.

On hunts, they'd isolate the weakest prey in a herd-- bear-yaks, penguin-seals, anything that travels in a swarm-- and whichever one looked most lost would usually be their dinner. Noatak has no intention of becoming anyone's dinner, though he knows they're prime targets.

Tarrlok still picks at his collar and the hem of his shirt, the unfamiliar lightness and material of their clothing scratchy against skin more suited to soft leather and silky fur. He'll have to get used to that, eventually.

Noatak nudges his brother on the shoulder as they step off the gangplank, waving their farewells to the crew. "Stop that," he says, "you'll give us away."

Tarrlok squirms, scratching an itch on the inside of his elbow. "I feel like I'm naked," he whines. "And I'm hungry."

Noatak has a string of coins in his pocket that he knows won't even last them a week, at once distressingly light and suffocatingly heavy. A single pack of their old clothes slung across his back, its strap digging into his shoulder. He presses a yuan into Tarrlok's hand and points him to a rickety stand on the corner, spiced meat on long skewers on display. Tarrlok returns with four portions, clumsily navigating around the crush of people in the street. Noatak can't find his appetite, so he takes one and tells Tarrlok to eat the rest.

It hadn't been so bad on the ship, but the city is overwhelming, stuffed to its seams with humanity. Noatak's sense for blood has always been uncommonly acute, honed by his father to a degree he's sure even Yakone has never experienced. It's giving him a headache.

Noatak wants...

He gravitates automatically toward an area of lower density. A park; stretching lush and green for acres in every direction around a large pond. Nothing compared to the vast lakes in the North but its surface rippling, completely unobscured by ice. Tarrlok stays close, grip tight on the hem of his shirt but comforted in the presence of water. They may be children, but waterbenders with an abundance of their element are never defenseless.

They spend the first night sitting close to the edge of the pond, Tarrlok huddled up against Noatak's side, Noatak's parka draped over their shoulders and Tarrlok's spread out under them. No stars are visible from Republic City but the moon is the same as it ever was, even blurry and obscured by smog, light shimmering across the water's surface instead of illuminating dunes of snow.

Tarrlok's cheek dips against Noatak's upper arm. He grimaces at the material of the shirt. He should be asleep; Noatak told him to go to sleep hours ago, promising to keep watch, but he doesn't reprimand him again. Tarrlok yawns, then looks up at him, hesitating briefly before he asks, "Do you think mom is okay?"

That must have been weighing on him.

"Mom's not a waterbender," Noatak answers simply.

Their father's never been cruel to their mother. Noatak had considered telling her about Yakone hundreds of times, one adult to counter the other, but he'd known that whatever strength she possessed, it wouldn't be enough to end their father's influence. Knowing who he was would only put her in danger, the mask of his assumed identity the only force keeping him in check. Hadn't he dropped all pretense of kindness the day he told them about his past?

Tarrlok nods, suddenly relaxed, tension that had strung his body taut loosening and the anxious pulse that had beat in Noatak's ears for weeks seems to slow. He slides down until his temple rests heavily on Noatak's thigh, one small hand moving to clutch the knee in front of his nose, and closes his eyes. It barely takes two minutes for Tarrlok to fall asleep, exhausted and overstimulated by the noise and activity of arriving in a new city.

Noatak looks up, tracing the skyline with his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

 

"No bloodbending," Noatak says to Tarrlok when he stirs. "We don't want to attract attention like that."

Tarrlok nods, scrubbing his eyes as he sits up on his haunches, yawns and blinks at his brother. No bloodbending; that's not a hard rule to follow. He never enjoyed it anyway, so he returns the half-hearted smile Noatak gives him with a grin. "I'd like that," he answers in a conspiratorial whisper, hand cupped over his mouth. "No more bloodbending."

Noatak raises a hand-- hesitates when Tarrlok's shoulders draw up toward his neck, (feels regret rising in the back of his throat at the idea that he's done more bloodbending in Tarrlok's presence than anything else), but in the end rests his palm on the crown of his head. He doesn't say anything before pulling away and standing up, stuffing their parkas back into his bag and hooking his thumbs into the belt band of his trousers. The material is at least forgiving where it matters, no loss of range or mobility in his legs.

While Tarrlok diligently bends the dew out of his clothes and hair, Noatak takes stock of their situation. They'll need money, food, a place to stay. Mostly money. They have... not nearly enough to make any of that happen. They're no strangers to hunting and fishing and living off the land, but that would make them stand out.

Noatak did not think this through.

They wander out of the park anyway, hopping a low brick wall and joining the mass of people streaming down a busy avenue. Safety in numbers and anonymity is one factor, and they need to familiarize themselves with the city as well. Noatak keeps his eyes peeled for 'help wanted' signs, food stands, grocery shops and hardware stores, but what catches his eye is a small clinic on the corner. Non-bending healers. He files it away immediately as something to investigate further, as soon as they have time for it.

Noatak spends another yuan at a noodle stand, he and Tarrlok settling on the bench in front of it to eat, bowls held in their hands. Between slurps, Tarrlok looks at him, quickly glancing away when Noatak turns to meet his eyes. When they return the bowls and chopsticks, Tarrlok has a soup stain on his sleeve and Noatak's pocket is another coin lighter.

"Are we sleeping in the park again?" Tarrlok asks him as they wind down a side street, its architecture stuck decades in the past. The stores are dim and small, all of them peddling overpriced traditional goods from the four nations. Noatak stops to poke at a snowglobe containing a scene of domestic bliss in the Southern Water Tribe, bits of white fluff swirling up from the bottom at the movement. Tacky.

"Maybe," he answers, moving on.

Tarrlok lags by half a step, then catches the hem of Noatak's shirt, this time pulling him gently to a stop. "Did you sleep last night?"

He gets a cool stare in reply, Noatak's eyes narrowed briefly before he snorts. "Does it matter?"

Tarrlok holds him in place when he tries to walk on.

"If I didn't," Noatak drawls, "what could you do anyway?"

"We can take turns."

"You're eleven."

"So?"

"You need to sleep," Noatak says, because it sounds better than _I don't trust you to stay awake, and even if you were awake I don't know if you can defend us_. Tarrlok would take it personally.

"You're fourteen," Tarrlok retorts. " _You_  need to sleep."

Noatak walks, ignoring the tug on his shirt until Tarrlok has no choice but to trot after him, sighing deeply.

He's not sure, exactly, what he's looking for but he leads them toward a square full of people, the place overflowing with stands selling a massive assortment of cloth and textiles. One of them is stocked with pelts, buckskin and leather; Noatak gravitates toward it, locking eyes with the shopkeeper well before he reaches it.

"You two," the middle-aged man behind the table says with a grin, clear blue eyes flashing with amusement, "aren't from around here."

Tarrlok stares at his brother as Noatak's entire demeanor changes, a startled, sheepish smile on his usually impassive face. His shoulders drop, arms consciously relaxing at his side. "Is it that obvious?" Noatak asks with a laugh. "What gave us away?"

"When you reach Republic City," the man says, slicking his own ear-length hair back, "you start losing touch with the homeland. Wolf-tails stand out, eel-tails stand out more. Looks old-fashioned, especially on two kids."

"Makes sense," Noatak says thoughtfully. "Did you cut your hair when you arrived?"

"I was born and raised here," says the shopkeeper. "Seen enough people passing through, though. Name's Anouk."

"I'm Arjak," Noatak says so smoothly that Tarrlok doubts for a second his entire perception of the events leading them to Republic City, and momentarily, his brother's identity. "And my brother, Kavut. We're looking for work."

Anouk laughs, expression incredulous. "Where are your parents, kid?"

"We can't go back home," says Noatak, eyeing the wares on display. "But we know how to tan leather and clean pelts. All Tribesman in our village learned how. We'll do a good job."

"And you came to me because you thought a fellow Tribesman would have some sympathy."

Noatak says nothing, fixing Anouk with an expectant stare. Whatever impression he tries to give, Anouk hardly looks like a man who's cut ties with the culture of his parents. Blue trim along his shirt, a decorated leather strap around a sturdy upper arm. He has an easy smile and a kind face, lined with wear.

"This is a tough city, Arjak." Anouk drags a hand down his chin, regarding the boys with a skeptical eye. "Can you waterbend?"

Noatak frowns. "No, sorry. It doesn't run in our family. We mostly hunted."  

 _Oh,_ Tarrlok thinks, clinging to Noatak's sleeve, _Yue help me, that's a lot of new information to remember._

"Well," Anouk sighs, scratching the back of his neck, "that'd make three of us."

* * *

 

They fall into a routine, at first sleeping in Anouk's living room before he puts them in touch with a friend who rents them a room in a tenement building near Republic City's garment district. Their new residence is just large enough to cram a narrow sleeping mat, a small table, a tiny bathroom with a sink and toilet, a faucet over a drain to serve as the bath. It takes five minutes to walk from their building to the production area, not much more than a shed by a textile factory, cramped and badly-vented, but workable.

Anouk picks up cured hides on the first day of each week, Noatak riding with him in the small truck to transport it for processing. Tarrlok stays at work, stretching and treating the skins alongside Anouk's wife, a stern woman called Nauja who slips him snacks every few hours. They rotate at the stand selling treated furs, mostly to designers looking for the next big thing and elderly citizens nostalgic for a taste of home.

After two months Tarrlok's graduated to bookkeeping, his fussiness and need for order apparently making him well-suited to accounting. He'd always been more of a scholar than a warrior. It also keeps him away from the chemicals, which is one more worry off Noatak's chest.

As for himself, Noatak's built up significant muscle in his arms and shoulders, thick calluses on his palms from scraping and stretching the material.

The first day of summer Nauja calls them into the office and points at a small pile of skins on a nearby table. Patches of fur are missing from several that Noatak can see, some others with small holes or tears. A few mildly discolored pieces of soft leather. "We couldn't sell these," she tells them, "and no one buys fur in the summer, so Anouk and I agreed that you two should have them. It isn't much, but you've been working so hard..."

Tarrlok immediately buries his face in the pile, making a show of his appreciation as he slides his cheek against the stiff hairs. Noatak stares for a second, dumbfounded, before he bows at the waist, his torso practically parallel to the floor.

When they arrive home, Noatak picks through their gifts and selects two of the larger furs, laying them over the mats they'd been sleeping on. A few smaller pieces end up as slippers wear at home, stitching precise and even; their mother had insisted that they learn to sew between waterbending lessons. The place starts to look and feel like a home.

Over the next few weeks Noatak produces a light autumn jacket and a winter coat, both a few sizes too large, then stows them away. Tarrlok blows through a good half of their stock on the same, and numerous vanity projects like hairties, necklaces and mukluks but he's so pleased with them that Noatak says nothing about it, other than to point out that he has more than enough of those now.

Noatak makes fur-trimmed bracers and leg-warmers with the rest of the material, selling all of them. Tarrlok can't bear to part with any of his own creations and insists on keeping a few of Noatak's for himself as well. (Noatak only allows himself a brief window to feel flattered-- after all, it's not often someone praises his craftsmanship as effusively as Tarrlok does. It's rare at all that Tarrlok likes what he does, considering how much of what he used to do was bloodbend.)

* * *

 

Against his own better judgement, Noatak gets comfortable by winter. He starts to believe that he can keep this up, that this isn't such a bad life, hard as it is. The better and faster they work, the more free time they find themselves with-- time to explore the city, time to hole up at the local library, time to eat their way through the cuisines of three nations and the occasional attempt to recreate Air Nomad dishes. The time Tarrlok makes a snide remark about tourists has Noatak laughing harder than he has in years. When did his shy little brother get so cocky?

He had known on some subconscious level from the beginning that Anouk's business is barely staying afloat, what with the niche customers that he's catering to. A group of Agni Kais pay him a visit every month or so and leave with a wad of cash or a particularly nice piece of merchandise as they make their rounds through the market. Noatak recognizes a protection racket when he sees one, but in the interests of keeping the peace Anouk and Nauja pay their dues, keep their heads down.

Years ago, Noatak had mastered the art of ignoring feelings of impending doom; a necessity when living with Yakone. Regardless of whether or not he was afraid of it, their father would drag them out for another training session. There were some things he liked-- testing the limits of his power, the praise, the control he could exert over another life-- but mostly he hated watching Yakone berate Tarrlok, the shoves and blows when his brother was a hair too slow in learning new forms.

"I found salted fish at the market," Tarrlok says over his notebook, jotting figures down as Noatak stretches damp hides across drying racks. "Do you think we should stew it?"

Noatak focuses instead on what's happening outside, beyond the door at his back. "We can stew it," he says absently, concentration locked on the uptick in Anouk's pulse, two other men conversing with him outside. "Tarrlok," he says before his brother can continue, "how do the books look this month?"

A long pause. "Not great."

"I'll be right back."

Noatak pokes his head out the door only to be unceremoniously dismissed and shoved back inside, Anouk wedging one foot against the jamb to keep him from opening it again. He presses his ear to the door instead, shoving at it whenever he thinks Anouk's foot has shifted, but it only wedges itself more securely as the volume on the other side of the door grows.

When he feels a swell of power from the other side, he's half a second away from popping every blood vessel in the stranger's body before he gains control of the impulse, squeezes his eyes shut and instead pulls up a discreet shield of dirty slush. Not enough to give him away. Enough to weaken the burst of flame Noatak can see light up the crack under the door. Anouk grunts, his body abruptly moving away.

He's clutching his arm when Noatak ducks outside, ('Go back inside, Arjak!') sleeve smoldering in tatters.

Noatak's gaze settles on the satomobile parked at the edge of the square, a phoenix ornament rearing up from the front edge of the hood. He looks back at the Agni Kais, memorizing their faces. 

"That's your warning," one firebender sneers as he turns on his heel and leaves.

"The clinic," Tarrlok says, helping Anouk stand, "it's only two blocks away. Until we can find a healer, they can--" he gestures helplessly at the inflamed patch on Anouk's arm, skin burned away to reveal a shiny, red burn. Another on his calf, charred around the edges. Serious, but not as serious as it could be.

Noatak chokes on guilt. He could've prevented this but he didn't want to reveal himself, couldn't stand the thought of him and Tarrlok exposed to the city for what they are. Anouk paid them-- not well, but enough. More than what they'd get at a proper factory. The extra overhead cut into profits, made the extra monthly expense unsustainable.

Noatak chokes on guilt but it's pragmatism that pushes him to breathe. He slings Anouk's uninjured arm over his shoulder, directing Tarrlok to lock up and go find Nauja. They make their way to the clinic far faster than an injured man and a boy half his size should feasibly be able to. The medic ushers them into his examination room and grimaces when he sees the wounds, immediately sending his assistant out to the nearest healer. In the meantime he cleans the burns, prodding for dead skin and excising it with a scalpel.

"I've always wanted to see healbending in action," Anouk says, face twisted in pain. He laughs, a short breathless huff.

"Healbending," Noatak repeats, mouth dry. 

A second later, he sidesteps Nauja and Tarrlok as they burst into the office, out of breath. Nauja goes to her husband; Noatak drags Tarrlok out to the waiting room.

"He'll be alright," Noatak says. "Even with waterbending healers, the doctor says it'll be two weeks before he can get back to work."

Tarrlok nods.

"We can't stay with them," Noatak tells him. Tarrlok looks deeply sad, eyes downturned, wringing his hands and tugging on his fingers like he used to do with his mitts. "We're costing them more than they can afford," Noatak continues, dropping into one of the waiting room seats. He pats the space next to him, prompting Tarrlok to join him. "But they've done a lot for us, and we'll repay the debt before we go."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Place an order." Noatak wrinkles his nose. "Six times usual volume."

"You want to cover treatment," Tarrlok guesses, his expression still miserable, "and hides cost less in bulk."

"And it should be enough to tide them over for a few months." Noatak can't stand looking at Tarrlok anymore, so he turns his attention to a poster on the wall across the room, the silhouette of a human body printed on it, along with the hundreds of known pathways of energy. The lines are startlingly familiar, even though he'd swear that he's never seen an actual chi-map of the human body before. "They should be fine if they're not paying us."

"So we're gonna..."

"Yeah."

"Well," Tarrlok says, gnawing anxiously on his bottom lip, "that's not so bad, is it?"

Noatak considers that it's a good thing he'd decided to give Anouk and Nauja fake names-- it'll make disappearing that much easier.


	3. Chapter 3

The massive pile of hides Noatak dumps out of Anouk's little rented truck comically dwarfs both himself and Tarrlok. He's not, technically, old enough to drive just yet but two buttons, a knob and a wheel are hardly difficult mechanics for Noatak to grasp. 

They rarely use all the basins available in the warehouse-- shack, really, though it leaves an impression of having once been a much larger operation. This time Noatak fills them all, lined up in neat rows as he and Tarrlok swirl the water to evenly mix whatever tanning solvents they dump in, the smell acrid and sharp. They add as many stiff hides will fit in each, every bucket nearly overflowing with them, then stand back and churn the water with short, sharp jabs until the skins are soaked through. 

Nauja stays home at Noatak's insistence, Anouk barred altogether from his workspace in case he's tempted to help. 

It takes three days of soaking and churning before the skins are soft enough to stretch, which Noatak and Tarrlok do together. Water tends to want to move in one direction; they can stretch a dozen hides at a time working in tandem, compared to the two or three they can each manage alone. Framing takes the longest, leather dry enough by then that they have to do it by hand. 

By the time the skins are finished, they have three days to spare before Anouk returns to work and Noatak can barely breathe in the workspace without bumping into a frame. Still, their product looks good-- furs undamaged, skins smooth and soft. Tanning was always a family affair at the Poles; their mother used to tell them that pelts and leathers always turn out better for having been crafted through cooperation and love. 

They do brisk business the next two days. Buyers looking for larger volume, who usually pass over Anouk's stand, can also afford to pay better than the average customer. Tarrlok haggles like an old pro, round-faced innocence masking a shrewd understanding of value. Noatak never did get the hang of it; he's not one for compromise. 

Anouk returns in trumph, whistling as he regards the neat stacks of product Noatak'd sorted by size and type. Tarrlok gives him the cashbox and his carefully-maintained records. 

"You two did all this yourself?" Anouk asks, running his hand along the length of a penguin-seal hide, fingers raking through soft, spotted fur. "I'm impressed."

Noatak evades, denying the compliment. "A few friends owed us favors, so we called them in. It should last you a while."

"Well, thank them for me, would you?"

"Uncle," says Noatak, "we're gonna start looking for work somewhere else. It'll be better for all of us."

Anouk inhales through his teeth. He can't deny it; taking them on had cost him more in yuan than he could afford, but they were good kids, diligent and considerate. "I won't ask you to stay," he answers, "but you don't have to leave."

"We're very grateful for the chance you gave us," Tarrlok cuts in. He'd rehearsed it until he could do it without bursting into tears. Anouk pats his head. "And we'll visit."

* * *

Tarrlok settles on the Phoenix-Wing district's library, shelving books between shifts behind the counter. It's a slow-paced branch, leaving him very little shelving to do but plenty of time to read which is perfect for a twelve-year-old. He hauls home stacks of books every few days, blazing through them with shocking speed. Art of War, History of Nations, Waterbending for Dummies.

('They have good tips!' Tarrlok had squawked when Noatak picked up the latter and began flipping through it. He's always so defensive; Noatak rarely has anything to say about what he reads.)

The Industrial Sector's largest non-bending clinic hires Noatak, first as a receptionist and then as an assistant when a minor explosion at a steel-working factory resulted in a surge of patients and he'd rolled up his sleeves and wandered into the fray to help fetch gauze and antiseptic. Waterbending healers under the City's employ arrived soon after to follow up on their triage efforts and Noatak assisted them as well, hauling basins of fresh water as they ran low. 

Emergencies aside Noatak learns the basics of first aid, acupuncture, moxibustion-- which herbs and combinations thereof are most effective against colds and muscle pains. Tarrlok brings him medical books sometimes too, though Noatak can never get far in them before losing interest. 

Sometime in late spring Noatak cuts his hair, shaved at the sides but long enough to slick back on top. Tarrlok nearly doesn't recognize him-- and probably wouldn't have, if his brother weren't waiting at his usual spot at the bottom of the library's steps, arm looped through the straps of a bag of groceries. Tarrlok bounds down the stairs to greet him, his own lovingly maintained tails growing longer with each passing season. 

"You look really cool," Tarrlok chirps as he falls into step next to Noatak, peering up at his brother, adoration splashed across his face. 

"It's easier for work," Noatak answers. A distinctively ethnic style draws questions, conversation, interrogations about where he's from, what he's done, where his family lives, who they are-- he doesn't even like giving his name. 

Back home, Noatak fills a pitcher and uses it to transport water to a pot on their stove, a little metal furnace with one burner. It takes two trips. 

Tarrlok has long since given up on trying to convince his brother to just waterbend. They have to light the fire by hand, move pots around by hand, the least they can do is transport water with the spirits-given skill they were born with-- but Noatak doesn't hear any of it. He always says something about training himself out of the habit. Why he'd want to hide the fact that he's the strongest waterbender the world has seen in decades, Tarrlok has yet to figure out.

At dinner Tarrlok stares across the table while they slurp their noodles, the meal progressing in silence as it usually does. Noatak has been quiet lately (moreso than usual), going through the motions in a steady monotone that recalls the stillness before a storm, clouds gathering beyond the horizon as the air grows thin and charged. 

When Tarrlok can no longer stand it, he pushes his bowl nervously around on the table in front of him until Noatak looks up. "What's wrong?" he finally asks.

"You're acting weird," Tarrlok informs him.

Noatak blinks, but says nothing. 

"You look mad, and sad."

Noatak picks his spoon off the table, checking his reflection on its surface.

"Well, okay," Tarrlok blurts out, painfully aware of how much his brother dislikes chatter but unable to stop himself, "you don't look any different, except for the hair, but you were kind of, a little, happy when you started at the clinic, but now you act like you don't like it at all." He takes a deep breath when Noatak's expression changes, a mild sort of discomfort appearing on his face. "If you want to do something else," Tarrlok says, hesitating, "we can go wherever you want. We're doing okay, you don't have to stay there if it's making you upset."

"I'm not upset," says Noatak, in the way that Tarrlok knows to mean he very well could /get/ upset, but he isn't quite there yet. 

"If you're tired--"

"I'm not tired."

Tarrlok picks up his bowl and drinks his soup. 

"Tarrlok," Noatak says after an awkward minute, "when's the last time you were at the clinic?"

"When I had a cough," he answers over the rim of his bowl.

"Remember how many people came in with burns?"

"Yeah."

Noatak stares at the table, at the back of his hand. "And frostbite? And broken bones?" He curls his fingers, making a fist. "You know they were all mugged or attacked by benders."

"Mostly triads," supplies Tarrlok, putting down his bowl. He reads the news every day, off the free copies provided to the library. 

"Yeah. They usually come to us because they couldn't afford to go to the hospital."

"With how much they're being extorted," Tarrlok mutters, fiddling with his spoon, "I kind of figured."

Noatak bares his teeth. "Sometimes they die."

Oh. Tarrlok sighs, leaning back in his seat, slightly away from his brother. It's not as if Noatak needs more reasons to hate benders, bending-- himself. Maybe even Tarrlok, too. "Non-benders kill people," he points out diplomatically.

"Not like this." 

They're certainly no strangers to violence, by benders and non-benders alike. Looking at his brother's face, Tarrlok knows that they're both thinking of Yakone-- how he was no less capable of cruelty for losing his bending. "They would if they could," he says.

Whatever seethes under the smooth surface of Noatak's calm seems to settle. "I know."

Tarrlok looks away.

Abruptly, Noatak shakes his head, scoops up his dirty dishes and ferries them to the sink. Tarrlok follows suit, already pulling a stream of water out of the faucet and swiping it across a dish of soap. Noatak leaves him to it, wandering back to the table to wipe down its surface as Tarrlok scrubs their used bowls and utensils. 

"Let's visit Mr. Anouk," Tarrlok says, not turning around. "We haven't seen them in months."

Noatak sighs. "We did promise."

* * *

Nauja and Anouk are doing well for themselves. Noatak, personally, is satisfied with that but Tarrlok insists on greeting them properly, only nominally declining to stay for dinner before he gleefully allows himself to be strong-armed into it. Noatak tolerates hair-ruffles and cheek-pinches, the comments on how quickly they've grown. He didn't really notice until Tarrlok passes a wall scroll hanging in Nauja's kitchen whose bottom used to brush the tops of his ears; it hangs even with his mouth now.

For all his reluctance to stay Noatak practically inhales the meaty stew Nauja sets on the table, only half-listening to Tarrlok chat. They still don't know that Noatak gave them fake names and they don't seem suspicious about it, either. They'd also figured out months ago that the cheery boldness he'd first approached Anouk with was more for the sake of expediency than his actual personality, so they don't press him for information.

Spring and summer are hard seasons for hunters and merchants alike; the Agni Kais are giving them trouble but not so much that they can't handle it. Nauja plans to move into crafting traditional Southern Water Tribe clothing to supplement their income, and Anouk has hammered out a deal with an Earth Kingdom trader who's looking for a place to sell silks and fabrics. 

Tarrlok seems pleased, insatiably curious about trade routes and international flow of goods. Before long, Anouk has a map rolled out on his end of the table, poring over it with Tarrlok over his arm, both their dinners forgotten. After all, one can only learn so much about commerce from books.

Nauja flashes Noatak a smile, one he returns almost involuntarily. Her expression, warm and soft, reminds him so much of their mother that it hurts, a physical pang of homesickness and worry twisting in his chest. Noatak wonders if she'd look at Tarrlok that way; if Tarrlok wouldn't be better off staying with the couple than just barely scraping by with his brother. 

He turns his attention back to his soup, scraping the bottom of the bowl before helping himself to another serving. 

When they leave, Anouk claps them both on the shoulder and Nauja bends down, pressing her nose lightly to Tarrlok's forehead and breathing in. 

Something about their dinner, Anouk and Nauja's cozy home, small as it is. The scrolls on their walls, covered not in calligraphy but in familiar grey-blue watercolor of snowdrifts illuminated by the moon, or two fish swimming in an eternal circle. 

_Oh,_ Noatak thinks, _oh no._

It'd been a long time since Tarrlok had received a kunik and his body flushes from head to toe-- all his capillaries dilating, pulse speeding as his eyes well up. Before long, fat tears are streaming down his cheeks and Nauja makes a cooing sound, lets him cling to her until he pulls himself away, scrubbing his nose and eyes with the back of his hand, fighting hiccups. 

"He misses our mother," Noatak tells them with a helpless lift of his shoulders (Kids, the gesture says, you know how they are), curling an arm around his brother's shoulders when Tarrlok returns to his side. "Thank you for dinner," he says politely, bowing at the waist. Tarrlok echoes the sentiment, nodding emphatically when they insist the brothers visit again soon.

"Sorry," Tarrlok mutters half a block from their building, hand tight on the hem of Noatak's shirt. 

A million different reassurances surface in Noatak's mind, but he says nothing. He shouldn't resent a twelve-year-old for missing his parents, and yet-- hadn't Noatak provided? He'd kept them sheltered, fed, practically thriving when so many others hadn't managed to scrape out a living. They didn't have to rely on waterbending, never fell in with Triads, skirted around the dangers of Republic City by luck and cunning. 

Isn't that what he wanted?


	4. Chapter 4

It's difficult for Noatak to avoid anti-bender chatter at a non-bending clinic though the owner, an elderly gentleman who goes by Eng, discourages it whenever the waiting room fills up. He's been trained in several medicinal disciplines: moxibustion from the Fire Nation, acupuncture and herbalism from the Earth Kingdom, chi adjustment and therapeutic massage from the Water Tribes-- all of them significantly more effective when utilized with bending but decently replicable by anyone with the technical know-how. Anytime Noatak can sit and watch the man work, he does.

One of the regulars, an older teen who refuses to give his name but remains on good terms with the staff, is always so vocal about bender oppression that Eng always insists on seeing him first, just to keep him from disturbing the other patients. It doesn't take long for him to notice Noatak.

He doesn't give Noatak his name either, and it turns into a running joke between them. No-name's always got bruises, small fractures, scraped knuckles. He comes in to get sewed up and splinted enough that one day Eng just hands him off to Noatak entirely, telling him to watch for anything unusual.

"I'm learning to chi-block," No-name tells him one time while he's waiting for the swelling in his sprained ankle to subside under a bag of ice, Noatak sitting at the desk and finishing up paperwork. He'd come in just before they were to close, and Noatak had volunteered to lock up once they were finished. He's been staying late more, recently-- Tarrlok's made friends with some boys who frequent the library and he hardly needs his brother to walk home with him anymore anyway. 

"Is that why you've jammed every last one of your fingers," Noatak shoots back, deadpan as he scrawls the date on a patient report. "Can you even still use your hands?"

"It's not as easy as it looks," No-name insists, his feet swinging as they dangle off the edge of the bed. "It's gotta be really precise."

Noatak looks up just long enough to show his incredulity. "Chi-blocking looks easy to you?"

"I'm a mechanic," No-name grumbles, shifting his ice pack, "not a martial artist."

"All right," Noatak answers, going back to his paperwork. He squints at a character, an uncommon surname and also a messy blob of squiggles that Noatak is definitely not fluent enough to parse. Sometimes patients can barely write their own names, so they cover with sloppiness. Noatak sets it aside for Eng to handle in the morning.

"I could teach you a few techniques," No-name offers.

"You'll just jam another finger," says Noatak. "Has the swelling gone down yet?"

No-name lifts the ice pack to prod at his ankle. "You're no fun, Arjak. Are you sure you're sixteen?"

Not looking up, "Some of us have responsibilities?"

No-name makes a sound between a grumble and a sigh. "You can have responsibilities and fun at the same time, man." After a second he slides off the cot and tests his ankle, gingerly putting weight on it before reaching for his sock and shoe. "Let's go out," he says decisively, "my leg's feeling better. I want to thank you for patching me up after hours."

"I'm not old enough to drink," Noatak answers, shuffling his papers into order and clipping them together for Eng to file in the morning. "There's nothing but bars open right now."

"What do you take me for?"

Noatak glances up when he hears the offended tone, re-evaluating his patient as someone who might actually have a sense of legal obligation. "Sorry," he says, "I thought--"

"Like I'd take you to a place that checks ID! Let's go."

* * *

Tarrlok's been staying out later, often dragged to dinner by parents of the other children he befriends at the library. He's used to Noatak not coming home until well after midnight too-- Tarrlok doesn't even see him some days. 

(Noatak always sees Tarrlok, though; little brother still asleep when he goes to work, already in bed by the time he gets home. All the same, Tarrlok'd never lost the habit of announcing his departures and arrivals, never figured out that it always took Yakone a little while longer to find them if they didn't proclaim to their family that they weren't going to be home. Nowadays Noatak only ever remembers to do it when Tarrlok catches him leaving and passive-aggressively tells him to be safe.)

In the meantime, No-name's been dragged into a discussion about (what else?) bender oppressiveness, leaning forward with his bony elbows on his knees. He's not much of a debater, Noatak notes, though he's got plenty of passion. "Arjak," No-name says suddenly, nudging Noatak on the shoulder, "you see what happens to non-benders at the clinic. Most of the patients are non-benders. It's just, you know, statistics."

One of No-name's acquaintances has already called him Chen and another's passed by with an offhand 'hey Liu,' and the bartender knows him by Yan. No one seems to bat an eye at it, and Noatak wonders if his truest identity might very well be a nameless vagrant. That of all the people who have known him longer, Noatak's the one who's seen him as he sees himself.

He's thinking of Tarrlok when he sets down his small ceramic cup of wine and leans into the conversation. "It's not benders," he murmurs, "specifically, that are the problem."

No-name's expression falls. 

He's always had a bit of an unfortunate look around him, lanky limbs and a thin face. He's not ugly, just-- sad, sometimes, misfortune in his bearing, saturating his spirit, his chi stunted in some places and crooked in others. It's not his fault, just the same unfairness at work that let Noatak and Tarrlok be born to Yakone. Noatak sometimes imagines that his own energy looks much the same, twisted by circumstance and bad luck.

"Bending is just a tool," Noatak continues cautiously, Tarrlok's words gnawing at a corner of his mind. "There are plenty of bad people who can't bend anything, right? But being able to bend gives them the power to do more damage than they could otherwise. The Avatar only used it as a last resort, but removing bending... that could've been used for a lot of good."

The Avatar is biased anyway; he should've stopped Yakone much sooner, should have removed the bending of every Triad the police were able to catch long before any bloodbender was able to build a criminal empire. Maybe if he'd just killed Yakone, the man never would've had the opportunity to terrorize his sons.

Noatak glances at No-name, relieved at the look on his face. Less betrayal, more thoughtful reconsideration in the set of his mouth and eyebrows. 

"Having your bending taken away shouldn't even be considered a punishment," someone grumbles, "it's like saying we're not whole people because we can't bend."

"Honestly, wouldn't the police force benefit from a chi-blocking squad? Non-benders deserve a shot at the same job opportunities and benefits as benders."

"And learning to defend ourselves shouldn't be something we have to go underground to do." 

No-name's been left in the dust. He's nodding along, but the extent to which he can contribute to the conversation seems to have met its limit. As for Noatak, he's finally able to piece together the disparate oddities of the city that had set him on edge. Benders and non-benders were supposed to live in harmony and for the most part they did in Republic City, but the places where friction accumulated and tore through the peace left an ugly truth bared to the world. 

People aren't equal, because some people can bend and some people can't. Even the Avatar, a symbol of harmony, based his power in control of all the elements.

Noatak leans forward. "What are you all proposing?" 

"If we had a solution," No-name spits, "don't you think we'd already be doing it?"

Noatak leans back and drinks his wine. Before he leaves, someone shoves a pamphlet into his hands containing directions and schedules of chi-blocker training classes in Republic City.

* * *

He never does end up going to the training sessions but the next time No-name's in the office getting a cut on his hand stitched, and he offers to teach Noatak the noodle-arm technique, he agrees. No-name hits four points on his arm and two down his side. 

Noatak can pick them out easily on No-name as well, shining clusters of energy where blood vessels, nerves and chi channels converge. If he looks even closer he can see where the channels are going, which organs and limbs they connect, where the energy is directed. A firebender could probably be stopped by disrupting flow from their lungs, an earthbender's to their feet. He's yet to see an airbender at work, but waterbending is a whole-body affair. It would have to depend on the practitioner which points to seal.

"Arjak!"

Noatak snaps out of it. "Yeah?"

"It's the noodle-arm technique," No-name quips, "not the stare-like-a-idiot technique."

Noatak's eyebrow twitches as feeling returns to his arm, the entire limb tingling. He could probably speed that recovery up a bit, if he were ever inclined to use waterbending again. "Do you want numbing ointment for your stitches or not?"

"Wow, medical malpractice and you're not even a proper doctor yet."

"It's not medical malpractice," Noatak mutters as he jots down instructions on a slip of paper, "it's called withholding treatment. Here, use it every morning and night, and if they hurt or itch. If you see swelling or pus, come back and we'll take care of it."

No-name prods at his stitches. "Gross."

"I don't want to hear that from you."

No-name pockets the small tin of ointment and saunters out, tossing one nonchalant wave over his shoulder. Noatak jots a record of his latest visit onto his file and stows it away with the rest. 

That night he actually makes it home for dinner, arriving to find Tarrlok puttering around the kitchen, two bowls on the table by the stove. He hovers behind him until Tarrlok gives him a knife and leaves him to clean and gut the fish he's laid out on the board. It's small but whatever the size, a whole fresh fish isn't easy to come by on their budget so when Noatak gives him a questioning look, Tarrlok flashes a proud grin and brandishes a wooden spoon. "Hong's dad is a fisherman," he explains, "and this one didn't sell at the market, so they just gave it to me when I ran into them on the way home."

"Hong?" Noatak asks as he moves for the sink. Once there he scrapes the fish's scales off, then deftly splits its belly and removes its guts. Back home they'd save innards for bait and even now Noatak dumps them in the trash with no small amount of regret. There's no place to fish or hunt and they wouldn't have time for it anyway. 

Tarrlok tries his soup, heated-up leftovers from three nights ago freshened up somewhat with a handful of cabbage. "I ordered a book for him last week, for school," he explains. 

There's something wrong with the way Tarrlok says that, but Noatak takes a moment to pin it down. "You want to go?"

A beat. Noatak internally berates himself for the stupidity of that question: of course Tarrlok wants to go to school. He can only learn so much by himself at the library. 

"We can't afford school," Tarrlok answers, busying himself with a pan.

"Yeah," Noatak agrees, "we can't."

"I'm going to apply to Republic City University in a few years," Tarrlok says instead. "If I do well enough on the entrance exam, there's a scholarship."

Noatak passes the cleaned fish to Tarrlok and washes his hands. "Can you do it?"

Tarrlok nods as he slides the fish into his pan. "There are a lot of practice tests at the library," he says, not looking up, "and tutoring sessions every week. I'll ask if I can sit in on them, since I don't actually have to do homework."

"If," Noatak says, stepping away from the splatter of oil and leaving his brother to tend to their dinner, "before the test, you want to take some time off to study, you should."

Not responding for a long moment, Tarrlok prods again at the fish, to make sure it hasn't stuck to the bottom of the pan. "I don't think that's a good idea," he murmurs, obviously thinking about their barely-stable finances. 

"Get the scholarship," Noatak insists. "You can do the math, right?"

"I can work and get the scholarship at the same time."

"Get the scholarship," Noatak says again. He waits for Tarrlok to turn to him, eyes slowly rising to meet his. "And when you're a rich politician or businessman or whatever," he says, "give me loads of money. I'm thinking about both of our futures, here."

Noatak grins when Tarrlok throws his arms around his neck, his little brother muffling a quiet _Thanks,_ into his shirt.


End file.
